Come to think of it, my brothers and I kept asking Grandma when Gorgeous George was going to fight Liberace. We weren't very clear on television personalities and I think we may have thought that Gorgeous George was Liberace's violin-playing brother, George. It would have made sense to use, because we were always fighting with each other.

I vaguely remember Gorgeous George - must have caught him towards the end of his career. They used to have wrestling matches on Saturday afternoon TV when I was a kid. I only ever watched a bit of them a few times. It looked really stupid. Even to a kid like myself, it was obvious that it was all show and posturing and bore very little resemblance to reality.

Nope, I never yearned to be a pro wrestler. My grandmother would watch Gorgeous George on television, but she was also into Liberace.

I suspect that it's because I know too well how to kill people and realize how fake pro wrestling is. A case could be made for it as theatre, I suppose, since it does provide a catharsis and arouses "pity and fear" in the observer. I doubt that either Aristotle or Shakespeare would have approved, except as a form of low comedy, the sort where buffoons would smack each other with air-filled pig's bladders.

I had a post about Andy Kaufman ready to send about 8 hours ago, then I discovered work was being done on phone lines in the area and I had no phone line, and therefore, no internet. Then I had to go out. GRRR! Meanwhile, Little Hawk has said some of what I was going to say, but I'll post all of it anyway.

What a strange man! He seemed to live his whole life in fantasy. I wonder how much of a grip he had on reality. I would hate to have been inside his head. I know a lot of it was an act, but how could you live like that and keep your sanity? He came across to me as mentally unbalanced.

Kaufman and Lawler's famous feud and wrestling matches were later revealed to have been staged, or a "work", as the two were actually friends. The truth about it being a work was kept secret for more than 10 years after Kaufman's death, until the Emmy nominated documentary A Comedy Salute to Andy Kaufman aired on NBC in 1995.

So much of what he did was not as it seemed that when he died of cancer in 1984, many believed it was another joke. Apparently there are many who believe even now that he faked his own death and is still alive.

No, it certainly is not what brains are for, Amos, but Andy was simply playing the "heel" (the bad guy). That's normal in wrestling. Such betrayals are standard fare. It's all choreographed ahead of time. He and Jerry Lawler were personal friends (though they kept that a secret very effectively at the time) and they set up the entire series of incidents from beginning to end. It was a superb "work" as such dramas are termed in the world of wrestling.

As the "heel" it was Andy's job to be as despicable, arrogant, mean, and obnoxious as he conceivably could be. His job was to make the fans absolutely hate his guts, and boy, did he ever succeed! That makes for big ticket sales. They'll fill the hall for the chance to see the heel get his just desserts.

It was not revealed until 10 years after Kaufman's death that he and Jerry Lawler had been good friends and had set up the entire thing from beginning to end. It was one of the most brilliant and successful wrestling promotions of all time, and it pretty much ended Andy Kaufman's career. He was done in by his own delight in confounding people, because they couldn't distinguish where the role ended and the real Andy Kaufman began. Even most people who knew him well couldn't figure it out.

What's gruesome about it? Pro wrestling is a total fantasy. It's all staged. The hilarious thing about that movie is that it shows how deeply people will buy into that fantasy (or at least pretend to if they professionally involved). It clearly provides an emotional catharsis for the wrestling audiences, satisfying some deeper need they have. I find that intriguing. Almost every little boy goes through a stage when he's fascinated by the characters in pro wrestling. Then most of us grow up and move on. Maybe wrestling is there for the ones who aren't ready to grow up in that respect. Andy Kaufman was a person who seemed possessed with a desire to continue living out his strongest childhood enthusiasms and fantasies in the most dramatic way possible...and yet he was fully aware of what he was doing while he did it! That's quite unusual, and it's interesting. Damn funny too.

You, from what high tower, I know not, can securely issue such condemnation? You who strove to bring Shatnerization to the MOAB? You, who inventeth alternate personalities of so little merit they dream of marrying policewomen? You, who buildeth of whole cloth the visage of stout detectives peopled by simians? Who worshipeth those who Wear the Rug and are over-endowed with Avoirdupois? Who spouteth all the day of Metaphysics? Who earneth his keep on E-Bay? You think to judge the sanity of others, while so unmoored drifts away your own mental ship? Oh, fie, rethink your premises, sirrah.

Nine thousand and twenty-seven posts ago, Our Founder brought forth on this forum, a new Thread, Conceived in Bull and dedicated to the proposition That all other threads were created equal except this one.

Now we are engaged in a great civil lull, Testing whether that thread -- or ANY thread, so conceived and so dedicated-- can long endure. We are met on the last post so far to that thread. We have come to dedicate a portion of that thread, as a final resting place for more of the bull from they who here gave their brains and hearts to seeing that thread survive. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this thread. The brave writers, wise and otherwise, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we do here, but it can never forget what they have said here, I suppose. It is for us the BSing, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who wrote here have thus far so nobly advanced.

It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored posts we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these BSers shall not have written in vain -- that this thread, under Max, shall have a new birth of better bull--

And that BS of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the Cat. "

Now 16, eight and seventy Have spoke the MOAB path With gallant epic ditty, And heartfelt jolly laughs. If eight and seventy do appear To please our Mother's Mind With Spring upon the MOAB can The Nine be far behind? And if the Nine should soon appear, Brave Sixteen Thousand Nine, How long before Seventeen Grand Shall Cross the MOAB line? And shall we then all celebrate And hymn and drink and wail? To see that Seventeen Thousandth Post Stand tall on MOAB's trail? Oh, let it be, that thee, and me And all of MOAB's clan May bring the day to come about Our Seventeen of Grand!

You would have me state that you use to leave "puddes"? Seems delusory to me. Anyway, old boy, as brother unto the MOAB I apologize for bringing up your childhood pecadilloes. It ain't truly fittin'. Must be Spring fever upon us. Once again I wander into work in shirtsleeves of a morning, and the days are long, golden, pleasant and busy.

I'm getting glaas-packs for my Camaro, Mom, so that doesn't happen when I tinker. As I remember it, teaching Rapaire the fine art of accurate tinkering was not easy, back in the day. He would leave puddles.

Ha! Her covers had slipped off the bed and her left leg was hanging off the mattress. The old girl was getting ready to start a slow slide out of bed if I hadn't gently nudged her back into place. A lot you know, out there tinkering with your mufflerless t-bird. Vroom, vroom! It shook Mom right out of bed this morning, I'll tell you!

"Cosmologists have long assumed that the overall expansion of the universe is not affected by the properties of small regions within it, since these properties should average out on the largest scales. But in any given region of space, the force of gravity between bits of matter acts as a brake on expansion. This means that expansion should slow down quickly in regions with lots of matter, while continuing without much change in mostly empty regions.

It is this difference in the expansion rate between different regions that could produce the illusion of dark energy, Rasanen says. Strangely enough, even though the expansion rate decreases or stays about the same in every region, the average rate of expansion for the universe as a whole can increase.

This is because over time, denser regions suck even more matter into them by the force of gravity, which further empties the less dense regions. This process has led to the condensation of matter into galaxies and clusters of galaxies, with ever larger voids in between."

As a regular contributor to the Master BS collection here, I must protest this effort to destabilize the grip of dark matter on our world-views. Dark matter is a priceless twist, a gem among concepts for those seeking touchstones from which to generate quality bull.

But even BS, sooner or later, must yield to the firm forward march of science. I am sure they'll come up with something, like the chicken-soup theory of particle creation or soemthing, to take the place of dark matter as a fount of ridicule.

Good morning, Mom! I see Stilly awakened you again at some ungodly hour, just so that you'd take your sleeping pill. That girl! Did you know that when she was out the other night she...oh, wait. I'm not supposed to mention to anybody that she was out with that guy she met at the Candy Store who turned and smiled at her even though they said he was bad because he came from the wrong side of town and they were always putting him down, she knew he was sad, but her dad said to find someone new and she had to tell Johnny they were through. That guy. The one they called "Wussy of the Pack." But I'm not supposed to tell you about it because she got in really, really late from the dance with her lipstick all a mess and she figured you'd ground her and then she couldn't go to the racing ground because you'd take her t-bird away.

Got a whale of a tale to tell ya, lads A whale of a tale or two 'Bout the flappin' fish and the girls I've loved On nights like this with the moon above A whale of a tale and it's all true I swear by my tattoo

There was Mermaid Minnie, met her down in Madagascar She would kiss me, any time that I would ask her Then one evening her flame of love blew out Blow me down and pick me up! She swapped me for a trout

Got a whale of a tale to tell ya, lads A whale of a tale or two 'Bout the flappin' fish and the girls I've loved On nights like this with the moon above A whale of a tale and it's all true I swear by my tattoo

There was Typhoon Tessie, met her on the coast of Java When we kissed I bubbled up like molten lava Then she gave me the scare of my young life Blow me down and pick me up! She was the captain's wife

Got a whale of a tale to tell ya, lads A whale of a tale or two 'Bout the flappin' fish and the girls I've loved On nights like this with the moon above A whale of a tale and it's all true I swear by my tattoo

Originally sung by our own Amos, as his ship, "Whereinhell Arwe," crossed the Line and he was promoted from polliwog by King Neptune his own self.

Cried he, "Villein! Hold thy pen! Don't write no more such stuff again! Else I will have to take thy head, Arms and legs, table and bed, I'll break thy lance, I'll break thy sword, I'll take thy dictionary, every word! For I do not fear the wrath of men Especially those who wield the pen!" So drew he Fishmash, his noble blade, And chased the poet 'round the glade, 'Til finally the poet slipped on the dew And Sir Amos clove him quite in two! "Egad!" quoth he. "What have I done?" Now poets two instead of one Shall loudly my details proclaim!" And so he hacked the chap again Until the poet mincemeat was And with sound of flies the glade did buzz. Then Sir Amos wiped from his blade the gore Of the poet who would nevermore Write of his deeds, both bad and good Within the overarching wood Of trees and shrubs and birds and deer, Giants, orcs, and old King Lear, Glaciers, palms, and pilgrims lost, And danger to the permafrost. Fair maidens everywhere did weep And publicans did half their keep Of nut-brown ale and whisky strong And with flooding tears did the sums erase That the poet owed, for now decease He ne'er more could even up the score Five pubs went broke and even more Did ban Sir Amos for this deed And the publicans spent their lives in need. In rags their children went to school In summer's heat and winter's cool And in future times whenever they Spoke to grandchild, fair or fey, Of their youth, how in school they stay (Tho' they walked uphill both the way Through snow and ice up to their chest Their education was the best) They told of how Sir Amos, brave, Did them to poverty enslave By mincing the poet, head and knee, Who was yclepted "Rapaire."

Headstood he in blasted wood Knowing that he did no good To his insides or to his head So got he to his feet instead And like the good and parfait knight He was he thought his hair a fright So sprang he to his noble steed Knowing that a comb he'd need Ere he could to table come And drink and eat and pound the drum- Like table with the other knights And drink, carouse, and get in fights Until the rosy daybreak came Bringing o'erindulgence's bane Calling like the other louts For aspirin, silence, patience, clouts For those so much dropped a pin And death to those who did more sin! Searched for a comb he high and low Here and there, above, below, In and out, around and through, On stormy sea, in morning dew, On mountain high, in valley low, In castle, keep, and bungalow! And then one day he did espy A comb that really caught his eye! Bejeweled it was, in platinum set Its very teeth as black as jet! Its rattail of Einsteinium

(This enormous epic will be continued later)

-- The Epic Of Sir Amos, from "The Incompleat Manuscript Works of Geoffy Chaucer" (Bawdylian Library, Rayon Herkimer Mss.)

The dragon did its mouth agape The brave Sir Amos to entape With its tongue, all slimy spit Envenomed like the Devil's pit! But brave Sir Amos stood his ground Amidst the flames that danced around His armor pure, but slightly scorched By dragon's breath and forward marched E'en unto the dragons head And hacked it off and then he said "Fair maiden I you this present As token of my pure intent." She cried, she shrieked, away did faint, Her visage fair did look like paint Of palest hue or whitewash pure But her lips of crimson quite a lure And brave Sir Amos kissed these Again and again, like tasting cheese, He could could nay stop, he could nay quit, 'Til damsel woke and took a fit "Oh evil one, who my virtue took, Now do the Right Thing, by The Book! Now marry me within the month, Or Daddy's gonna

(This enormous epic will be continued later)

-- The Epic Of Sir Amos, from "The Incompleat Manuscript Works of Geoffy Chaucer" (Bawdylian Library, Rayon Herkimer Mss.)

Oh good! You've set the tone for my movies this weekend. The library was stripped bare of most of the good DVDs--I ended up bringing home Hamlet and Braveheart. Lots of blood and guts and bits of brain, ala Mel Gibson.

Amidst the angst of battle sound Brave Sir Amos would be found, Round him bodies steeped in gore Men who'd never breath no more. Cloven skulls and pierced hearts Guts outside their inside parts Legs and arms all scattered 'round Scarlet plumes and trousers browned Gouts of blood and bits of brains Brave Sir Amos faced the trains Of Celt and Pict and Saxon foe Free to trade them blow for blow Iberian, Banjoist and Basque But fell Sir Amos to his task! Slaughtered he the serried rank And armed file. Until a tank Lumbered fast into his sight He quaked, but did not take his flight For overhead, above the foe An A-10 Warthog struck a blow All liveried in puce and orange

(This enormous epic will be continued later)

-- The Epic Of Sir Amos, from "The Incompleat Manuscript Works of Geoffy Chaucer" (Bawdylian Library, Rayon Herkimer Mss.)

Well! I had a crushing response written but it vanished into that great Black Hole in the Internet.

But basically you are correct, Amos: there are no words in English which end in "aire" and are pronounced as "aree." But rather that repeat everything in my now-vanished post, I refer you to the Oifig na Gaeilge at the Dublin Institute of Technology, where I am certain that you will find that the word "Rapaire" is a variant of the word "Ropaire" and that both are pronounced "Rapparee."

I can only suggest that of you had wanted to be named Rapparee, you would have spelled it accordingly. The only possible pronunciation for your present spelling does, indeed, rhyme approximatly with "prayer", "air", and dare I say it, "Nair".

You will find no truly English words in which the ending after a consonant "aire" sounds at all like "aree".

And for you to spitefully seek to discredit so creative and elegant a ballad as my own recent humble contribution on shallow and inacurrate phonological ground is a twist worthy of the most loyal Republican.

Big Johnny Fastus brought the tablets down from the mountain last night to the Legion Hovel.

No big deal; the drugstore is uphill from the Hovel and the Legionaires and Legionettes were in sore need of aspirin.

Johnny has been awarded the "Legion Lifesaver" medal for his heroic trek to and from Walgreens and his purchase of a jar of 1,000 aspirin tablets, enough to last the Hovel Habitues at least two weeks, if not less.